Truth crushed to earth shall rise again: Th’ eternal years of God

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

They talk of short-lived pleasures: be it so; pain dies as quickl

The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailin

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon

Weep not that the world changes – did it keep a stable, changeles

Loveliest of lovely things are they On earth, that soonest pass a

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest

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